Breathe Easy
by shrugoff
Summary: At first all you can see is a huge carton box above a set of two unbelievably long legs, entire hall smelling strongly of dust and paint and happiness, tiredness and musky sweat. But then—then there is an undercurrent that reminds you of something lovely, something familiar, something that is home, and just like that your life as you know it is completely done.


You would have never guessed that your life was going to change entirely on a humid afternoon in late June, while you're waiting impatiently for an elevator.

At first all you can see is a huge carton box above a set of two unbelievably long legs, entire hall smelling strongly of dust and paint and happiness, tiredness and musky sweat. But then—then there is an undercurrent that reminds you of something lovely, something familiar, something that is _home_, and just like that your life as you know it is completely done.

You can't take your eyes off the dark hair that stands out in every direction known where miles of carton end halfway the man's pale forehead, and you're almost in trance, trying to get a glimpse of his face and simultaneously not being able to look away from his hands, oh god, his hands, _his hands_.

"Hey—" you barely hear over the sound of your rabbit-quick heartbeat. The corner of the box digs into your thigh and it _hurts_, but you don't care, you can't care because you see the man's face now, his amber-gold eyes locked on yours, the sweet, perfectly formed 'o' of his lips that invites you in when he stares at you, dumbfounded.

It's ridiculously endearing, the sudden jump in his pulse and the hitch in his breath, it's been ages since you didn't want to punch someone in their stupid throat for assessing your—everything—and seeming unable to shake it all off because of how attractive you are. You know it's different now, though, as different as your inability to stop smelling old books and specks of dust and almonds all around you, on him, and maybe also chili, you don't even know, all of your senses going into overdrive. It's different because _he_ is different, he doesn't look at you like you're an object to be desired and owned, he looks at you like you're beautiful and _interesting_, and since you know there's nothing remotely interesting about you, you feel stupidly proud and embarrassed and so fucking hopeful that you want to kick your own ass for being this pathetic. But he's enthralling, he's talking to you—at you—and it's amazing, he's amazing. He's everything you would have wanted if you had let yourself think about it back in times when you still had waited for a miracle to happen, and you already know, _you know,_ and it makes you painfully ecstatic and even more frightened.

He swallows then, making your mouth water with the want to taste his next words on his tongue; something must be showing on your face, because suddenly his expression changes, he steels himself, he—

He nods at the panel on the elevator, smiling ruefully.

"I'm sorry, um, my hands are full, could you maybe…" He trails off when you press the button without a word, and then the two of you stand awkwardly in the empty hall until the elevator pings and its door opens like the gates of Hell itself, ready to swallow you, consume you like you want to consume him _whole_—

That's it, you think when the metallic door closes after you two step inside. You panic like you haven't panicked in _years_, that's it, he's going to get off the elevator in a few seconds and you're going to stay here and keep longing for something you could have had for the rest of your _life_, but in a moment you won't ever _see_ him again and you won't get a _chance_—

"Damn it, I will never get used to this," he cuts through your thoughts like it's warm butter, and you suppress a shudder. His voice isn't nice, it's all sharp edges and precision, but it's as alive as he is, and you always thought you wouldn't like that, you wouldn't want someone who couldn't voice their thoughts gently, but now all you want to find out is how does he sound when his voice _breaks_. "I said it would be a nuisance," he adds, maneuvering his box so that it's partially propped on a rail, and stabs a button with the number 7 like it personally offended him by existing. Perhaps it did, you wouldn't know.

You hazard a quick glance above his head at your own reflection in the elevator's mirror; your eyes are huge and dazed and you look like you were hit by a truck full of bricks and drugged with wolfsbane all at once. It's not a good look on you. Laura would call you a squishy squirrel, and she'd never stop cackling like the devil she is while you _weren't_ pouting on the couch.

Like you're not pouting _now_.

He sighs and your eyes snap back to his face; it's not a conscious decision when you lean closer, yearning to get high on the air pushed out from his lungs. It's… disturbing. You force yourself to relax and lean against the opposite wall, all the while trying desperately to avoid thinking about how fucking creepy your thoughts really are. You're a sick person for clinging to them anyway, you're sure of that, since all of your ideas sound invading and _wrong_, but you can't leave them in peace because at the same time they seem so _right_ that you can't _not_ want to breathe the same air as the man does, and Jesus Christ, you don't know a single _thing_ about him apart from the fact that he has a box full of old books and the most expressive face you've ever seen. You need to stop zeroing in on his collarbones, too, you think, and the smell of his sweat, you have to—

"Moving here was the worst idea ever," he mutters over your silent freak out, and your heart breaks a little.

"I'm sorry," you say, because you don't know what else could be said. No one can blame you, you're the anti-social, weird younger brother of Laura, the Laura who would laugh at you forever if she knew. She _will_ know, you realize suddenly, and you feel like you might faint.

You need to get off this elevator as soon as possible.

You don't ever want to stop seeing him blush unselfconsciously.

"No, man, it's fine," he laughs, if a bit awkwardly, and drags his fingers through his hair. You smell embarrassment and you don't understand why, you didn't intend to—

"I didn't intend to—" you try to apologize, but his hand makes a flailing motion that almost knocks his carton box to the ground, like that hand isn't connected to the rest of his body at all, and you stare at it, intrigued and surprised.

"No, seriously, I don't have anything against living here," he insists, and you're so, so relieved to hear the truth in his words that you smile at him, not a little dazed when he just _looks_ at you and his pupils get blown wide. "It's just, I don't really like cities and living alone, and after college my best friend got married to this pretty girl and I decided to start from scratch. You know, in a new place. And I still can't get used to it, to the elevators and the chaos and all those people hurrying everywhere like it's some kind of a life-or-death deal for them." He shrugs with one shoulder, uneasy. "But it's got nothing to do with this place, it's nicer than I hoped. Besides, I'm definitely not going to tuck my tail between my legs and flee to my father's house just because I've still got a few things to learn."

"Oh," you say, and even in your ears it sounds like a really inappropriate reaction.

You want to tell him how glad you are that he thinks so, that he will live two floors under your apartment and that you will take care of him as best as you can, that he'll be happy here—but the elevator pings again, and it's too late, it's time he left you behind. _He's not leaving you behind, you moron_, you hear Laura's voice in your head, and you know it's true, you _know_, but you still can't help feeling slightly betrayed and a lot anxious, maybe this is what real heartbreak feels like, when you're so deep _in_ that you can't stand to lose the person even for a second—

"Uh," he says after who knows how long of your mutual staring at each other to the soundtrack of the raging silence. The elevator door tries to slide shut again and you stop it with your hand, out of habit, unthinking. "Sorry for the rant, dude, I shouldn't have dumped it all on you like that, I'm really sorry, it's just that—damn it!" he curses when his phone starts ringing somewhere in his pocket. For a moment he fidgets in place, not sure what to do, put the box down on the floor and fish the phone out or ignore it, and at last he huffs with annoyance and you smile at him before you can catch yourself. When his breath hitches again, your heart swells so much you can feel it in your throat. "Uh, sorry about that," he says at last, nervous and flustered and excruciatingly sweet, "I really need to go before the apocalypse starts. Yeah, I'll just—yeah," he repeats when his phone starts ringing for the second time. "See you around?" His question is so tentative, so unsure that you're suddenly thrown back into the flow of time, eagerness rolling off of you in waves.

"You will," you say like it's a simple fact of life, and this time he smiles back at you, easy and bright, and you feel dazed, like when you stare at the sun for a second too long. "I'm Derek, by the way. I live on the ninth floor."

"Stiles," he introduces himself, and his hand, when he extends it (still struggling with his box), is lean like the rest of him, so warm that you want to seep this warmth from his body until the end of the time, not only for a brief moment of a handshake.

"Nice to meet you, Stiles," you say like it's the most important thing that you'll ever say, and you don't add, _Why don't you drop by, why don't you visit one day and stay not only for dinner but after, and after, and after, you should meet Laura, you would like her, everybody likes Laura—_

"You too, Derek."

And then it's over, he's gone in a flutter of clumsy movement and amazing, overpowering smell, the smell of home, of the person—you always stubbornly repeated—you hadn't ever wanted to have by your side.

The door of the elevator slides closed and you're strangely bereft, alone-not-alone with an insane grin on your face, a grin that catches Laura off guard when she accosts you at the door of the apartment you two share to ask if everything is all right.

"Yeah," you answer like you came a long way from the beginning of the road to get to the place where you are now. "Yeah, everything's fine."

Strangely enough, for the first time in—forever—you mean it.

It's so bizarre to stand in the brightly lit kitchen of Stiles' apartment and restrain yourself from touching, from sniffling, from all the things you want to do to Stiles, for Stiles, _with_ Stiles.

It's been four months since Stiles moved in and entire building smells like him now, like spices and pine wood, like warmth and a little bit of sadness, and almonds. Always almonds, you don't really know why, he isn't even _close_ to liking them—he's allergic, for god's sake, he's told you the story of how Scott saved his life in kindergarten, what led to their "epic bromance of epic proportions that is the biggest bromance that ever bromance'd". Stiles' wording.

You still don't understand half of the things about him and more than half of the things he talks about, and you don't care.

He talks a lot, though. He talks enough for the two of you and your awkward silences, maybe even enough for the entire neighborhood on a bad (_good_) day. He talks ten miles an hour and it's still too little for you, you still crave his attention and his stories and his laughter, free and unguarded. The buzz of his chatter wakes you up when he calls his father on a Saturday morning and his singing is the only background noise you need when you work out. You would hear his voice from the other side of the street, not only those two floors that separate you, and you always want more, uncaringly and hungrily, like a creeper you swore you'll never become.

Laura figured it out as soon as she ran into Stiles checking his mail in the hall but, shockingly enough, she didn't say anything terrifying or scathing, and it's unnerving. She just keeps sending you these _looks_, like she wonders if you're ever going to man the fuck up, or if it's one of those situations where a little push from your creepy-ass werewolf sister is necessary to move things along.

That one time she commented on your drunkenly blissful expression after you came back from Stiles' apartment, you snarled at her and told her to meddle with other people's lives for a change, leaving you alone.

"The hell I'll leave you alone," she said angrily, eyes flashing electric blue. "I'm going to tell Mom and ask her permission to tell him."

She didn't, though; you know she didn't because your Mom calls you every week like nothing happened, asks about your job and tells you about your little sisters' newest shenanigans. If Mom knew, you'd have to answer at least two disturbing calls from Uncle Peter and your Father, during which they'd both try to give you useless courting advice you don't _ever_ want to get from anyone, really—but especially from the people who raised you and _who can't lie to you_. Not effectively, at least. Well, maybe Peter—but he wouldn't want to employ his lies by omission tactic since embarrassing you is one of the biggest joys of his life.

Fuck, it's going to be complicated, you think mournfully.

Right now though you're in Stiles' kitchen, watching him wash the dishes after the dinner he invited you for. You listen to him humming under his breath, and he's so sure you can't hear him from where you're standing—or just not caring if you know about his abysmal taste in everything—that your heart flutters funnily in your ribcage and stutters like it's going to stop beating altogether. Not for the first time since you and Stiles became (something like) friends—but always a little bit like something-more-than-friends, more excited to see each other, more animated, more talkative, just _more_—there's not enough air in the entire world for you to breathe and you need to, _have_ to stand next to Stiles _right this moment_ so that you can calm your instincts down, hear his heartbeat like it's your own and smell his skin from as close as he'll allow you to come.

He doesn't jump anymore when he turns his head and you're suddenly _there_, but it's always a near thing and it's never not funny. You don't let your face show any emotion though, just laugh at him internally when he shoves at your shoulder saying, "_Dude_," like you two talked about it one hundred times. He shakes his head, sighs somberly like it shaved five years off of his life, and hands you a dishtowel. "At least make yourself useful if you're going to give me a heart attack at the young age of twenty five."

"You've got it, senior citizen," you answer dryly, and Stiles shoves at you again, his eyes narrowed like the eyes of a hawk; Laura would kill you with laughter if she knew how stupidly affected you are by them. You're over thirty and a fucking creature of the night that has more sharp things in its arsenal than it knows what to do with, you don't _get_ to want to pin Stiles underneath you and try to sniff out every single emotion he has like a teenager who doesn't know how to restrain himself. You don't get to, but you can't help _wanting_ it, and damn your life, you really _want_ to pin Stiles under your body and keep him there as long as he'll let you, keep him safe, keep him _yours_.

"You better be careful, grandpa, I may look fragile, but there's more to me than meets the eye," threatens teasingly Stiles, completely unaware of the sharp points of teeth you're fighting back where they belong—where they should stay. Preferably forever, but at least until you figure out how to tell Stiles that he's destined to be yours, that he's _it_ for you and that you would perish if you were to never see his laughing face ever again. (Forever still seems to be the better option here, though, you can't lose him; you don't joke when you say you wouldn't be able to _breathe_ if he ran away from you after you tell him, because of what—_who_—you are.)

At the moment, though, you just dramatically roll your eyes and take one of the clean plates from the counter, holding it up like a shield. "Those plates were a gift from your dad," you remind Stiles when he shoves at you yet _again_. "You don't want to accidentally _break_ them, do you?"

"Fuck you," he says empathically, and you laugh at last, thinking that you want to kiss the upturn of the corner of his mouth and bury your face in the crook of his neck to inhale deeply the aura of his contentment, the feeling of being in the right place after being in all the wrong ones for so long, the happiness. You want to be the sole cause of it forever just like you are now, to smell it on him bright and pulsating, lighting up the room better than any lamp ever could.

You wait.

You wait, because it's only been four months and he's still striving to find his footing, because you won't let yourself court him before he learns who he is on his own—before you teach him who he is for you and who he could be _with_ you, how amazing you two would be together, Stiles-and-you, invincible.

But for now, you're drying the dishes after Stiles washes them clean, listening to him talking excitedly about Scott getting into that med program he always dreamt about, and breathing, breathing, breathing.

For now, it's enough.


End file.
